The next morning, Andy Bellefleur called to give me the greenlight to reopen.

By the time the crime scene tape was down, Sam had returned to Bon Temps. I was so glad to see my boss that my eyes got weepy. Managing Merlotte's was a lot harder than I'd ever realized. There were decisions to make every day and a huge crowd of people who needed to be kept happy: the customers, the workers, the distributors, the deliverymen. Sam's tax guy had called with questions I couldn't answer. The utility bill was due in three days, and I didn't have check-writing privileges. There was a lot of money that needed to be deposited into the bank. It was almost payroll time.

Though I felt like blurting out all these problems the minute Sam walked in the back door of the bar, I drew in a calming breath and asked about his mother.

After giving me a half hug, Sam had thrown himself into his creaking chair behind his desk. He swiveled to face me directly. He propped his feet up on the edge of the desk with an air of relief. "She's talking, walking, and mending," he said. "For the first time, we don't have to make up a story to cover how fast she can heal. We took her home this morning, and she's already trying to do stuff around the house. My brother and sister are asking her a million questions now that they've gotten used to the idea. They even seem kind of envious I'm the one who inherited the trait."

I was tempted to ask about his stepfather's legal situation, but Sam seemed awful anxious to get back into his normal routine. I waited a moment to see if he would bring it up. He didn't. Instead, he asked about the utility bill, and with a sigh of relief I was able to refer him to the list of things that needed his attention. I'd left it on his desk in my neatest handwriting.

First on the list was the fact that I'd hired Tanya and Amelia to come in some evenings to make up for Arlene's defection.

Sam looked sad. "Arlene's worked for me since I bought the bar," he said. "It's going to be strange, her not being here. She's been a pain in the butt in the past few months, but I figured she'd swing around to being her old self sooner or later. You think she'll reconsider?"

"Maybe, now that you're back," I said, though I had severe doubts. "But she's gotten to be so intolerant. I don't think she can work for a shifter. I'm sorry, Sam."

He shook his head. His dark mood was no big surprise, considering his mom's situation and the not-completely-ecstatic reaction of the American populace to the weird side of the world.

It amazed me that, once upon a time, I hadn't known, either. I hadn't realized some of the people I knew were werewolves because I didn't comprehend there was such a thing. You can misinterpret every mental cue you get if you don't understand where it's coming from. I'd always wondered why some people were so hard to read, why their brains gave me a different image from others. It simply hadn't occurred to me it was because those brains belonged to people who literally turned into animals.

"You think business'll slack off because I'm a shapeshifter or because of the murder?" Sam asked. Then he shook himself and said, "Sorry, Sook. I wasn't thinking about Crystal being your in-law."

"I wasn't ever nuts about her, as you well know," I said, as matter-of-factly as I could. "But I think it's awful what was done to her, no matter what she was like."

Sam nodded. I'd never seen his face so gloomy and serious. Sam was a creature of sunshine.

"Oh," I said, getting up to leave, and then I stopped, shifting from foot to foot. I took a deep breath. "By the way, Eric and I are married now." If I'd hoped I'd get to make my exit on a light note, my judgment was way, way off. Sam leaped to his feet and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"What have you done?" he asked. He was deadly serious.

"I haven't done anything," I said, startled by his vehemence. "It was Eric's doing." I told Sam about the knife.

"Didn't you realize there was some significance to the knife?"

"I didn't know it was a knife," I said, beginning to feel pretty pissed but still maintaining my reasonable voice. "Bobby didn't tell me. I guess he didn't know himself, so I couldn't very well pick it up from his brain."

"Where was your sense? Sookie, that was anidiotic thing to do."

This was not exactly the reaction I had anticipated from a man I'd been worried about, a man on whose behalf I'd been working my butt off for days. I gathered my hurt and pride around me like a jacket. "Then let me just take my idiotic self home, so you won't have to put up with my idiocy any longer," I said, my voice even enough to support a level. "I guess I'll go home now that you're back and I don't have to be here every single minute of my day to make sure things are running okay."

"I'm sorry," he said, but it was too late. I was on my high horse, and I was riding it out of Merlotte's.

I was out the back door before our heaviest drinker could have counted to five, and then I was in my car and on the way home. I was mad, and I was sad, and I suspected that Sam was right. That's when you get the angriest, isn't it? When you know you've done something stupid? Eric's explanation hadn't exactly erased my concerns.

I was scheduled to work that evening, so I had until then to get my act together. There was no question of my not showing up. Whether or not Sam and I were on the outs, I had to work.

I wasn't ready to be at home, where I'd have to think about my own confused feelings.

Instead of going home, I turned and went to Tara's Togs. I hadn't seen a lot of my friend Tara since she'd eloped with JB du Rone. But my inner compass was pointing in her direction. To my relief, Tara was in the store alone. McKenna, her "helper," was not a full-time employee. Tara came out of the back when the bell on the door rang. She looked a little surprised to see me at first, but then she smiled. Our friendship has had its ups and downs, but it looked like we were okay now. Great.

"What's up?" Tara asked. She looked attractive and snug gly in a teal sweater. Tara is taller than I am, and real pretty, and a real good businesswoman.

"I've done a stupid thing, and I don't know how I feel about it," I said.

"Tell me," she commanded, and we went to sit at the table where the wedding catalogs were kept. She shoved the box of Kleenex over to me. Tara knows when I'm going to cry.

So I told her the long story, beginning with the incident in Rhodes where I'd exchanged blood with Eric for what turned out to be one too many times. I told her about the weird bond we had as a result.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "He offered to take your blood so an even worse vamp wouldn't bite you?"

I nodded, dabbing at my eyes.

"Wow, such self-sacrifice." Tara had had some bad experiences with vampires. I wasn't surprised at her sarcastic summation.

"Believe me, Eric doing it was by far the lesser of two evils," I assured her.

Suddenly, I realized I'd be free now if Andre had taken my blood that night . Andre had died at the bombing site. I considered that for a second and moved on. That hadn't happened and I wasn't free, but the chains I wore now were a lot prettier.

"So how are you feeling about Eric?" Tara asked.

"I don't know," I said. "There are things I almost love about him, and things about him that scare the hell out of me. And I really ... you know ...want him. But he pulls tricks for what he says is my own good. I believe he cares about me. But he cares about himself mostly." I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I'm babbling."

"This is why I married JB," she said. "So I wouldn't have to worry about shit like this." She nodded, confirming her own good decision.

"Well, you've taken him, so I can't do that," I said. I tried to smile. Marriage to someone as simple as JB sounded really relaxing. But was marriage supposed to be like settling back in a La-Z-Boy ? At least spending time with Eric is never boring, I thought. Sweet as he was, JB had a finite capacity for entertaining conversation.

Plus, Tara was always going to have to be in charge. Tara was no fool, and she'd never be blinded by love. Other things, maybe, but not love. I knew Tara clearly understood the rules of her marriage to JB, and she didn't seem to mind. For her, being the navigator/captain was a comforting and empowering role. I definitely liked to be in charge of my own life - I didn't want anyone owning me - but my concept of marriage was more in the nature of a democratic partnership.

"So, let me summarize," Tara said in a good imitation of one of our high school teachers. "You and Eric have done the nasty in the past."

I nodded. Boy howdy, had we.

"Now the whole vampire organization owes you for some service you performed. I don't want to know what it was, and I don't want to know why you did it."

I nodded again.

"Also, Eric more or less owns a piece of you because of this blood-bond thing. Which he didn't necessarily plan out in advance, to give him credit."

"Yep."

"And now he's maneuvered you into the position of being his fianc¨¦e? His wife? But you didn't know what you were doing."

"Right."

"And Sam called you idiotic because you obeyed Eric."

I shrugged. "Yeah, he did."

Tara had to help a customer then, but only for a couple of minutes. (Riki Cunningham wanted to pay on a prom dress she'd put on layaway for her daughter.) When Tara resumed her seat, she was ready to give me feedback. "Sookie, at least Eric does care about you some, and he's never hurt you. You could've been smarter. I don't know if you weren't because of this bond thing you have with him or because you're so gone on him that you don't ask enough questions. Only you can figure that out. But it could be worse. No humans need to know about this knife thing. And Eric can't be around during the day, so you'll have Eric-free time to think. Also, he's got his own business to run, so he's not going to be following you around. And the new vampire execs have to leave you alone because they want to keep Eric happy. Not so bad, right?" She smiled at me, and after a second, I smiled back.

I began to perk up. "Thanks, Tara," I said. "You think Sam will stop being mad?"

"I wouldn't exactly expect him to apologize for saying you acted like an idiot," Tara warned me. "A, it's true, and B, he's a man. He's got that chromosome. But you two have always gotten along great, and he owes you for you taking care of the bar. So he'll come around."

I pitched my used Kleenex into the little trash can by the table. I smiled, though it probably wasn't my best effort.

"Meanwhile," Tara said, "I have some news for you, too." She took a deep breath.

"What is it?" I asked, delighted that we were back on best-friend footing.

"I'm going to have a baby," Tara said, and her face froze in a grimace.

Ah-oh.Dangerous footing. "You don't look super-happy," I said, cautiously.

"I hadn't planned on having children at all," she said. "Which was okay with JB."

"So ... ?"

"Well, even multiple birth control methods don't always work," Tara said, looking down at her hands, which were folded on top of a bridal magazine. "And I just can't have it taken care of. It's ours. So."

"Might ... might you come around to being glad about this?"

She tried to smile. "JB is really happy. It's hard for him to keep it a secret. But I wanted to wait for the first three months to pass. You're the first one I've told."

"I swear," I said, reaching over to pat her shoulder, "you'll be a good mother."

"You really think so?" She looked, and felt, terrified. Tara's folks had been the kind of parents who occasionally get shot-gunned by their offspring. Tara's abhorrence of violence had prevented her from taking that path, but I don't think anyone would have been surprised if the older Thorntons had vanished one night. A few people would have applauded.

"Yeah, I really think so." I meant it. I could hear , directly from her head, Tara's determination to wipe out everything her own mother had done to her by being the best mother she could be to her own child. In Tara's case, that meant she would be sober, gentle-handed, clean of speech, and full of praise.

"I'll show up at every classroom open house and teacher conference," she said, now in a voice that was almost frightening in its intensity. "I'll bake brownies. My child will have new clothes. Her shoes will fit. She'll get her shots, and she'll get her braces. We'll start a college fund next week. I'll tell her I love her every damn day."

If that wasn't a great plan for being a good mother, I couldn't imagine what a better one could be.

We hugged each other when I got up to leave.This is the way it's supposed to be, I thought.

I went home, ate a belated lunch, and changed into my work clothes.

When the phone rang, I hoped it was Sam calling to smooth things over, but the voice on the other end was an older man's and unfamiliar.

"Hello? Is Octavia Fant there, please?"

"No, sir, she's out. May I take a message?"

"If you would."

"Sure." I'd answered the phone in the kitchen, so there was a pad and pencil handy.

"Please tell her Louis Chambers called. Here's my number." He gave it to me slowly and carefully, and I repeated it to make sure I'd put it down correctly. "Ask her to call me, please. I'll be glad to take a collect call."

"I'll make sure she gets your message."

"Thank you."

Hmmm. I couldn't read thoughts over the phone, which normally I considered a great relief. But I would have enjoyed learning a little more about Mr. Chambers.

When Amelia came home a little after five, Octavia was in the car. I gathered Octavia had been walking around downtown Bon Temps filling out job applications, while Amelia had put in an afternoon at the insurance agency. It was Amelia's evening to cook, and though I had to leave for Merlotte's in a few minutes, I enjoyed watching her leap into action, creating spaghetti sauce. I handed Octavia her message while Amelia was chopping onions and a bell pepper.

Octavia made a choked sound and grew so still that Amelia stopped chopping and joined me in waiting for the older woman to look up from the piece of paper and give us a little backstory. That didn't happen.

After a moment, I realized Octavia was crying, and I hurried to my bedroom and got a tissue. I tried to slip it to Octavia tactfully, like I hadn't noticed anything amiss but just happened to have an extra Kleenex in my hand.

Amelia carefully looked down at the cutting board and resumed chopping while I glanced at the clock and began fishing around in my purse for my car keys, taking lots of unnecessary time to do it.

"Did he sound well?" Octavia asked, her voice choked.

"Yes," I said. There was only so much I could get from a voice on the other end of a phone line. "He sounded anxious to talk to you."

"Oh, I have to call him back," she said, and her voice was wild.

"Sure," I said. "Just punch in the number. Don't worry about calling collect or anything; the phone bill'll tell us how much it was." I glanced over at Amelia, cocking an eyebrow. She shook her head. She didn't know what the hell was going on, either.

Octavia placed the call with shaking fingers. She pressed the phone to her ear after the first ring. I could tell when Louis Chambers answered. Her eyes shut tight, and her hand clenched the phone so hard the muscles stood out.

"Oh, Louis," she said, her voice full of raw relief and amazement. "Oh, thank God. Are you all right?"

Amelia and I shuffled out of the kitchen at that point. Amelia walked to my car with me. "You ever heard of this Louis guy?" I asked.

"She never talked about her private life when she was working with me. But other witches told me Octavia had a steady boyfriend. She hasn't mentioned him since she's been here. It looks like she hasn't heard from him since Katrina."

"She might not have thought he survived," I said, and we widened our eyes at each other.

"That's big stuff," Amelia said. "Well. We may be losing Octavia." She tried to stifle her relief, but of course, I could read it. As fond as Amelia was of her magical mentor, I'd realized that for Amelia, living with Octavia was like living with one of your junior high teachers.

"I got to go," I said. "Keep me posted. Text me if there's any big news." Texting was one of my new Amelia-taught skills.

Despite the chilly air, Amelia sat on one of the lawn chairs that we'd recently hauled out of the storage shed to encourage ourselves to anticipate spring. "The minute I know something," she agreed. "I'll wait here a few minutes, then go check on her."

I got in my car and hoped the heater would warm up soon. In the gathering dusk, I drove to Merlotte's. I saw a coyote on the way. Usually they were too clever to be seen, but this one was trotting along the side of the road as if he had an appointment in town. Maybe it was really a coyote, or maybe it was a person in another form. When I considered the possums and coons and the occasional armadillo I saw squashed by the road every morning, I wondered how many werecreatures had gotten killed in their animal forms in such careless ways. Maybe some of the bodies the police labeled murder victims were actually people killed by accident in their alternate form. I remembered all animal traces had vanished from Crystal's body when she'd been taken down from the cross, after the nails had been removed. I was willing to bet those nails had been silver. There was so much I didn't know.

When I came in Merlotte's back door, full of plans to reconcile with Sam, I found my boss having an argument with Bobby Burnham. It was almost dark now, and Bobby should be off the clock. Instead, he was standing in the hall outside of Sam's office. He was red in the face and fit to be tied.

"What's up?" I said. "Bobby, did you need to talk to me?"

"Yeah. This guy wouldn't tell me when you were going to get here," Bobby said.

"This guy is my boss, and he isn't obliged to tell you anything," I said. "Here I am. What do you need to say to me?"

"Eric sent you this card, and he ordered me to tell you I'm at your disposal whenever you need me. I'm supposed to wash your car if you want me to." Bobby's face went even redder as he said this.

If Eric had thought Bobby would be made humble and compliant after a public humiliation, he was nuts. Now Bobby would hate me for a hundred years, if he lived that long. I took the card Bobby handed me and said, "Thanks, Bobby. Go back to Shreveport."

Before the last syllable left my mouth, Bobby was out the back door. I examined the plain white envelope and then stuck it in my purse. I looked up to meet Sam's eyes.

"Like you needed another enemy," he said, and stomped into his office.

Like I needed another friend acting like an asshole,I thought. So much for us having a good laugh over our disagreement. I followed Sam in to drop my purse in the drawer he kept empty for the barmaids. We didn't say a word to each other. I went to the storeroom to get an apron. Antoine was changing his stained apron for a clean one.

"D'Eriq bumped into me with a jar full of jalape?os, and the juice slopped out," he said. "I can't stand the smell of 'em."

"Whoo," I said, catching a whiff. "I don't blame you."

"Sam's mama doing okay?"

"Yeah, she's out of the hospital," I said.

"Good news."

As I tied the strings around my waist, I thought Antoine was about to say something else, but if he was, he changed his mind. He crossed the hall to knock on the kitchen door, and D'Eriq opened it from the inside and let him in. People had wandered into the kitchen by mistake too often, and the door was kept locked all the time. There was another door from the kitchen that led directly out back, and the Dumpster was right outside.

I walked past Sam's office without looking in. He didn't want to talk to me; okay, I wouldn't talk to him. I realized I was being childish.

The FBI agents were still in Bon Temps, which shouldn't have surprised me. Tonight, they came into the bar. Weiss and Lattesta were sitting opposite each another in a booth, a pitcher of beer and a basket of French-fried pickles between them, and they were talking intently. And at a table close to them, looking regal and beautiful and remote, was my great-grandfather Niall Brigant.

This day was going to win a prize for most peculiar. I blew out a puff of air and went to wait on my great-grandfather first. He stood as I approached. His pale straight hair was tied back at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a black suit and a white shirt, as he always did. Tonight, instead of the solid black tie he usually wore, he had on a tie I'd given him for Christmas. It was red, gold, and black striped, and he looked spectacular. Everything about him gleamed and shone. The shirt wasn't simply white - it was snowy and starched; and his coat wasn't just black - it was spotlessly inky. His shoes showed not a speck of dust, and the myriad of fine, fine wrinkles in his handsome face only set off its perfection and his brilliant green eyes. His age enhanced rather than diminished his looks. It almost hurt to look at him. Niall put his arms around me and kissed my cheek.

"Blood of my blood," he said, and I smiled into his chest. He was so dramatic. And he had such a hard time looking human. I'd had one glimpse of him in his true form, and it had been nearly blinding. Since no one else in the bar was gasping at the sight of him, I knew they weren't seeing him the same way I did.

"Niall," I said. "I'm so happy to see you." I always felt pleased and flattered when he visited. Being Niall's great-granddaughter was like being kin to a rock star; he lived a life I couldn't imagine, went places I would never go, and had power I couldn't fathom. But every now and then he spent time with me, and that time was always like Christmas.

He said very quietly, "These people opposite me, they do nothing but talk of you."

"Do you know what the FBI is?" Niall's fund of knowledge was incredible, since he was so old he'd stopped counting at a thousand and sometimes missed accurate dates by more than a century, but I didn't know how specific his information about the modern day might be.

"Yes," he said. "FBI. A government agency that collects data about law breakers and terrorists inside the United States."

I nodded.

"But you're such a good person. You're not a killer or terrorist," Niall said, though he didn't sound as if he believed my innocence would protect me.

"Thank you," I said. "But I don't think they want to arrest me. I suspect they want to find out how I get results with my little mental condition, and if they decide I'm not nuts, they probably want me to work for them. That's why they came to Bon Temps ... but they got sidetracked." And that brought me to the painful subject. "Do you know what happened to Crystal?"

But some other customers called me then, and it was a while before I got back to Niall, who was waiting patiently. He somehow made the scarred chair look like a throne. He picked the conversation up right where we'd left off.

"Yes, I know what happened to her." His face didn't seem to change, but I felt the chill rolling off of him. If I'd had anything to do with Crystal's death, I would have felt very afraid.

"How come you care?" I asked. He'd never paid any attention to Jason; in fact, Niall seemed to dislike my brother.

Niall said, "I'm always interested in finding out why someone connected to me has died." Niall had sounded totally impersonal when he spoke of Crystal's death, but if he was interested, maybe he would help. You'd think he'd want to clear Jason, since Jason was his great-grandson just as surely as I was his great-granddaughter, but Niall had never shown any sign of wanting to meet Jason, much less get to know him.

Antoine rang the bell in the kitchen to tell me one of my orders was up, and I scurried off to serve Sid Matt Lancaster and Bud Dearborn their cheesy chili bacon fries. The recently widowed Sid Matt was so old I guess he figured his arteries couldn't harden much more than they already had, and Bud had never been one for health food.

When I could return to Niall, I said, "Do you have any idea who did it? The werepanthers are searching, too." I put down an extra napkin on the table in front of him so I'd look busy.

Niall didn't disdain the panthers. In fact, though fairies seemed to consider themselves apart and superior to all other species of supernaturals, Niall (at least) had respect for all shapechangers, unlike the vampires, who regarded them as second-rate citizens. "I'll look a little. I've been preoccupied, and that is why I haven't visited. There is trouble." I saw that Niall's expression was even more serious than usual.

Oh, shit. More trouble.

"But you need not concern yourself," he added regally. "I will take care of it."

Did I mention Niall is a little proud? But I couldn't help but feel concerned. In a minute I'd have to go get someone else another drink, and I wanted to be sure I understood him. Niall didn't come around often, and when he did, he seldom dallied. I might not get another chance to talk to him. "What's up, Niall?" I asked directly.

"I want you to take special care of yourself. If you see any fairies other than myself or Claude and Claudine, call me at once."

"Why would I worry about other fairies?" The other shoe dropped. "Why would other fairies want to hurt me?"

"Because you are my great-granddaughter." He stood, and I knew I'd get no more explanation than that.

Niall hugged me again, kissed me again (fairies are very touchy-feely), and left the bar, his cane in his hand. I'd never seen him use it as an aid to walking, but he always had it with him. As I stared after him, I wondered if it had a knife concealed inside. Or maybe it might be an extra-long magic wand. Or both. I wished he could've stuck around for a while, or at least issued a more specific danger bulletin.

"Ms. Stackhouse," said a polite male voice, "could you bring us another pitcher of beer and another basket of pickles?"

I turned to Special Agent Lattesta. "Sure, be glad to," I said, smiling automatically.

"That was a very handsome man," Sara Weiss said. Sara was feeling the effects of the two glasses of beer she'd already had. "He sure looked different. Is he from Europe?"

"He does look foreign," I agreed, and took the empty pitcher and fetched them a full one, smiling all the while. Then Catfish, my brother's boss, knocked over a rum and Coke with his elbow, and I had to call D'Eriq to come with a washcloth for the table and a mop for the floor.

After that, two idiots who'd been in my high school class got into a fight about whose hunting dog was better. Sam had to break that up. They were actually quicker to come to their senses now that they knew what Sam was, which was an unexpected bonus.

A lot of the discussion in the bar that evening dealt with Crystal's death, naturally. The fact that she'd been a werepanther had seeped into the town's consciousness. About half of the bar patrons believed she'd been killed by someone who hated the newly revealed underworld. The other half wasn't so sure that she'd been killed because she was a werepanther. That half thought her promiscuity was enough motivation. Most of them assumed Jason was guilty. Some of them felt sympathy for him. Some of them had known Crystal or her reputation, and they felt Jason's actions were justifiable. Almost all of these people thought of Crystal only in terms of Jason's guilt or innocence. I found it real sad that most people would only remember her for the manner of her death.

I should go see Jason or call him, but I couldn't find it in my heart. Jason's actions over the past few months had killed something in me. Though Jason was my brother, and I loved him, and he was showing signs of finally growing up, I no longer felt that I had to support him through all the trials his life had brought him. That made me a bad Christian, I realized. Though I knew I wasn't a deep theological thinker, I sometimes wondered if crisis moments in my life hadn't come down to two choices: be a bad Christian or die.

I'd chosen life every time.

Was I looking at this right? Was there another point of view that would enlighten me? I couldn't think of anyone to ask. I tried to imagine the Methodist minister's face if I asked him, "Would it be better to stab someone to keep yourself safe, or let them go on and kill you? Would it be better to break a vow I made in front of God, or refuse to break my friend's hand to bits?" These were choices I had faced. Maybe I owed God a big debt. Or maybe I was protecting myself like he wanted me to. I just didn't know, and I couldn't think deep enough to figure out the Ultimate Right Answer.

Would the people I was serving laugh, if they knew what I was thinking? Would my anxiety over the state of my soul amuse them? Lots of them would probably tell me that all situations are covered in the Bible, and that if I read the Book more, I'd find my answers there.

That hadn't worked for me so far, but I wasn't giving up. I abandoned my circular thoughts and listened in on the people around me to give my brain a rest.

Sara Weiss thought that I seemed like a simple young woman, and she decided I was incredibly lucky to have been given a gift, as she considered it. She believed everything Lattesta had told her about what had happened at the Pyramid, because underneath her practical approach to life there was a streak of mysticism. Lattesta, too, thought it was almost possible I was psychic; he'd listened to accounts of the Rhodes first responders with great interest, and now that he'd met me, he'd come to think they were speaking the truth. He wanted to know what I could do for my country and his career. He wondered if he'd get a promotion if he could get me to trust him enough to be my handler throughout my time of helping the FBI. If he could acquire my male accomplice, as well, his upward trajectory would be assured. He would be stationed at FBI headquarters in Washington. He would be launched up the ladder.

I considered asking Amelia to lay a spell on the FBI agents, but that seemed like cheating somehow. They weren't supes. They were just doing what they'd been told to do. They didn't bear me any ill will; in fact, Lattesta believed he was doing me a favor, because he could get me out of this parish backwater and into the national limelight, or at least high in the esteem of the FBI.

As if that mattered to me.

As I went about my duties, smiling and exchanging chitchat with the regular customers, I tried to imagine leaving Bon Temps with Lattesta. They'd devise some test to measure my accuracy. They'd finally believe I wasn't psychic but telepathic. When they found out what the limits of my talent were, they'd take me places where awful things had happened so I could find survivors. They'd put me in rooms with the intelligence agents of other countries or with Americans they suspected of awful things. I'd have to tell the FBI whether or not those people were guilty of whatever crime the FBI imagined they might have committed. I'd have to be close to mass murderers, maybe. I imagined what I might see in the mind of such a person, and I felt sick.

But wouldn't the knowledge I gained be a great help to the living? Maybe I'd learn about plots far enough in advance to prevent deaths.

I shook my head. My mind was wandering too far afield. All that might happen. A serial killer might be thinking of where his victims were buried just at the moment I was listening to his thoughts. But in my extensive experience, people seldom thought, "Yes, I buried that body at 1218 Clover Drive under the rosebush," or, "That money I stole sure is safe in my bank account numbered 12345 in the Switzerland National Bank." Much less, "I'm plotting to blow up the XYZ building on May 4, and my six confederates are ..."

Yes, there would be some good I could do. But whatever I could achieve would never reach the expectations of the government. And I'd never be free again. I didn't think they'd hold me in a cell or anything - I'm not that paranoid. But I didn't think I'd ever get to live my own life as I wanted.

So once again, I decided that maybe I was being a bad Christian, or at least a bad American. But I knew that unless I was forced to do so, I wasn't going to leave Bon Temps with Agent Weiss or Special Agent Lattesta. Being married to a vampire was way better.

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